Starfang
by Windborn
Summary: When Blackwall receives an exquisite sword with Warden history as gift from the Inquisitor, he never expects that history to come looking for it.


_Prompt: "It could be worse." Elissa Cousland, Warden Blackwall. This little snippet came to me when I went looking for reference pictures of Starfang and discovered it's a drop in Inquisition's multiplayer. Well, my Warden wasn't having any of that!_

* * *

 **Starfang**

It started, as many of Blackwall's troubles seemed to, with a sword.

A lovely thing, all of silver-blue metal and veined with an uncanny glow; it sat comfortably in the hand, as though it knew it belonged in one, but with a slight chill. Starfang, it was called, according to an elegant inscription near the crossguard. The Inquisitor had won it from one of the men in a game of Wicked Grace, and since it seemed to have Grey Warden connections-made by or for, no one seemed sure-had given it to Blackwall.

Perhaps the blade was cold because it _knew_.

Still, he was grateful. Honored, even. He'd never seen a finer sword, and few that near matched it. Maybe it didn't approve of him, but it would more than serve.

He thought.

Skyhold was far from impenetrable, with its crumbling walls and that gaping chasm in the dungeons. Although anyone trying to climb in _there_ would have to be more than a little mad and have the balls of a giant, and made of dragonbone. In theory, anyone coming along the causeway should be spotted long before they reached the gates.

They'd dealt with intruders before. And assassins. Most had snuck in with a supply caravan, or disguised as part of some ambassador's retinue.

Something told him this one . . . didn't.

#

A weight on his chest woke him in the middle of the night. He tried to roll over, to dislodge it, but found himself pinned. His hands were already growing numb from the pressure on his biceps.

He collected himself to attack. Whatever-whomever had him nearly immobilized was coming off. And would regret that "nearly."

Something cold slid along his throat, stinging as it went.

So much for "nearly." Blackwall opened his eyes.

The glow of his new sword illuminated a woman straddling his chest, her knees digging painfully into his arms. Sword aside, there were worse ways to wake up. But her expression was cold and empty, and he kept the quip tight behind his teeth.

"Where did you get this sword?" she hissed.

Despite the risk, he debated a moment longer trying to toss her off. She was almost elven small and her weight slight, despite her human build. The precision with which she applied that weight made him think better of it.

"It was a gift," he said. "The Inquisitor won it in a card game. Where the soldier came by it, I've no idea."

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked to his right, toward the doorway. "Are you hearing this? Gambled away like a common dagger!"

"It could be worse," a low voice, male, answered. "Melted down for the metal, perhaps."

"Maker help the smith who tried. And demons take the fool to make the request!"

Blackwall cleared his throat. "Please don't make her angrier, whoever you are. How many of you are there, anyway?"

"Only two," the man said, clearly amused.

"Nice friend you have there," Blackwall told the woman. "Are you sure you can't let me up, discuss this like sensible-"

She shifted the blade, cutting him off. "With you, _Warden_ Blackwall?"

Shit. His mouth went dry. Panic knifed him in the gut. "What do you want?" he whispered.

Surprised, perhaps that she had rattled him so easily, she sat back, drawing the sword away from his throat, considering. "I want to find the bastard who had the _gall_ to steal the sword that killed the Archdemon. I want to make his life _hell_." She stared a moment longer, and then a grin transformed her fierce features into something real and lovely and no less deadly than before. "And then I want to conscript him, because that's the sort of skill, the sort of nerve, we can use."

Maybe not so lovely. Her glee was almost more frightening than her anger. But . . . "Killed . . . You're . . ." _Cousland._ What was the first name? He couldn't remember, couldn't think.

"Grey Wardens." The pressure on his arms eased, and she stood as smoothly as if drawn up by a string. "Little else."

Quite the risk, letting him up-until he realized he still couldn't feel his hands. This would hurt like demonfire in a minute. Worry still distracted him. "How did you know?"

"That you aren't?" asked the man, and now Blackwall could turn to find the source of the voice. He could just make out a darker shadow in the gloom beside the door, but nothing more. "You feel wrong."

"Uh, sorry, what?"

"Wardens can sense one another," Cousland replied. "We mightn't have noticed; this false Calling Corypheus started is loud, distracting." She sheathed the sword, throwing the barn into darkness but for the dim flickering of torchlight from the yard. "After learning 'a Warden' had the sword, we listened more carefully. We must have found every Grey Warden in Skyhold. None had it."

"Small wonder Elissa nearly took your head off, the temper she was in by the time we learned there was an extra."

Elissa. That was the name. Slowly, Blackwall sat up. Alarming them when the only weapon he'd had within reach was in their hands would be damn foolish. Not that they seemed particularly jumpy, but his hands were beginning to tingle and burn. He really didn't want to have to hit anything. He took a deep breath. "So. What now?"

"Now we leave, before her Mabari stages a rescue," the man said. "Better if we hadn't woken you at all." His tone suggested a continued argument.

"Perhaps, but it's done. The only way to learn he knew nothing was to ask."

"You _sat_ on me." Blackwall wasn't sure if he meant it as a protest or clarification. He found it difficult to comprehend. He'd been straddled by the Hero of Ferelden. Even in the context of interrogation, no one would believe it.

Elissa actually laughed. "In case you failed to notice, you're nearly twice my size. That limits non-violent incapacitation methods, and Nathaniel was feeling uncooperative."

The man-Nathaniel, presumably-merely snorted.

"But he's right. We need to leave. If Leliana gets wind of us she'll try to make us stay, and no one will appreciate how that turns out."

He heard footsteps, and sensed, more than saw, a shift in the shadows. "Wait. You don't intend to tell the Inquisitor?"

Such a long pause followed his inquiry he thought he'd asked too late, until Nathaniel, wary, countered, "Why would we?"

" _Why?_ Because I'm . . . My lie makes a mockery of some of the greatest heroes in history, and-"

"Did you learn _nothing_ at Adamant?"

"Adamant was . . ."

"An error in judgment," Elissa finished for him, cutting through whatever else her comrade might have said. "But it was also truth. Your service to the Inquisition makes you a better Grey Warden than many who've earned the name. We should be proud to have you."

A _better Warden_? Little they knew! Fortunate for him-his own crimes were near enough to what had been done to her family, he doubted she would be so forgiving should she find out.

By the time he managed to stammer his bewildered gratitude, he could hear in the softness of the silence that they'd already gone.

#

The Inquisitor asked, a few days later, what Blackwall had done with Starfang.

"Warden business," he muttered. How would he even begin to explain the truth?

"Pardon?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Inquisitor," he finally said. "So let's go with, 'Someone wanted it a lot more than I did,' and leave it at that."


End file.
